Verbum Sapienti
by Meredith T. Tasaki
Summary: AU... or is it? Most of Dr. Michael Thornsby's truly meaningful exchanges with Rodney McKay had involved no words whatsoever. Like the time the brat's sister suckerpunched him.


Verbum Sapienti

Summary: AU... _or is it?_ Most of Dr. Michael Thornsby's truly meaningful exchanges with Rodney McKay had involved no words whatsoever. Like the time the brat's sister sucker-punched him.

Rating: PG-13, because of a certain bitter, foul-mouthed little man

Notes: Offshoot of a little AUish scenario that's been in my head, because I've been failing to write an essay all day and I really needed to feel productive. And it helped my mood a heck of a lot. Verbum sapienti is Latin for "a word to the wise"; it's from a longer maxim, _verbum sapienti satis est_: "to the wise, a word is sufficient". Note what this says about who in this story is wise.

-

Dr. Michael Thornsby stared at the shabby door he'd just slammed in the "government man's" face (needed paint) and wondered what the hell had come over him. It had been a matter of instinct, practically-- the impulse had come over him like reflex, too quickly to determine what had set it off.

And then he remembered: _Rodney McKay._ "I'd like to talk to you about Dr. Rodney McKay," the agent had said. And he had immediately slammed the door.

It was fitting, he supposed. After all, most of his truly meaningful exchanges with Rodney McKay had involved no words whatsoever.

Like the first time they met: he'd asked why the hell he should take a shabby little pimply-faced freshman under his illustrious wings-- and the kid had walked over to the blackboard, grabbed a piece of chalk, and, before he could make a move to stop him, started to thoroughly correct his useless grad student's equations. And he'd looked at him when he finished, eyebrow raised in a cocky little "Well?"

And he'd had to grin. "Wednesdays at three," he'd said. "And don't be late."

And that meeting three years later, that disastrous meeting, when the kid had stormed into his office and slammed a copy of the journal onto the desk in front of him. He didn't recall the kid saying a word the entire meeting, which had been pretty rude. "It's an oversight," he'd said. "I'll get it corrected. Your name will be in the endnotes. But you should be happy your work was good enough to get into a journal in the first place. They even thought it was good enough to be mine!"

And he'd just sat there, silent, staring at the edge of Michael's desk, eyes dark.

"You can use one of your other thesis ideas," he'd said. "It shouldn't be hard. Just don't do anything that would force me to call the honor committee, understand?"

"Yes," Rodney had said. "Yes, I do."

And then had come Rodney's undergrad honors thesis, eloquent with hardly any words at all; a surprisingly detailed and illuminative analysis of the equations that governed exactly what he could go and do to himself. Naturally, Rodney hadn't graduated with honors.

(Though a few people had voted for it-- he'd kept them under close watch ever since. And, of course, the paper had instantly become wildly popular among math grads and undergrads all over the country. But he wouldn't grudge the kid that much.)

When the kid pursued his master's in _library science_, of all things, that had been an even more eloquent "screw you". A bit of a waste of potential, Michael had thought, but if you couldn't stand the heat...

After that, he'd had three or four years of peace before the damn brat walked into his life again. He was almost positive the little son of a bitch had given him flawed equations on purpose, just so he could write that paper and screw him over later. He seemed like the type of manipulative bastard who could pull that kind of long game off.

Then the kid had graduated with his first doctorate-- under that bitch Agatha McKimmon, of all people-- and he'd felt he had to go to say hello.

There hadn't been many words in that encounter, either. He'd yelled, "Hey!"; the kid had turned around; he'd introduced his fist to the little bastard's chin. (And it had _not_ been a sucker-punch. If the kid had shitty reaction time, that was hardly _his_ fault.)

And then some decidedly _not_ Asian kid had yelled "Sumimasen!" behind him; he'd turned to see what the hell was going on, and the bitch had hit him with a textbook. And, while he was reeling from that, the kid's bitch of a sister had _sucker-punched_ him! Okay, yeah, the kid had been knocked to the floor, but _he_ was the one who'd had to take a trip to the emergency room, so he still couldn't see what the big damn uproar had been about.

And, as just icing on the goddamn cake, when he'd yelled that no real man was defended by a bunch of _women_, that feminazi bitch McKimmon had smiled, flipped him off, and (he was _sure_ of this) got immediately on all her little gossip lines and had sullied his name on two continents within an hour. Goddamn Scotswoman.

In the face of his humiliation, his wife had decided to leave him. Oh, sure, she'd _said_ it was because he was screwing Cindy, but she hadn't minded _before_ his reprimands, now had she? Then had come the mess with the divorce settlement and the journal's review board and the university and now he lived in this crap-ass apartment in the slums.

And what really got to him-- he thought, as the "government man" kept pounding on the door-- was that day, a few months-- had it been a year? Two? He couldn't remember _when_ the hell it had been-- ago. He'd been walking home, minding his own business, with his groceries-- and there the little bastard was, sipping coffee at an outdoor table of the cafe.

He'd glared at the man; McKay had stared at him, his eyes had lit with recognition, and he'd lifted his chin, defiantly.

"I got fired, my wife left me, and my name is mud," Michael had snapped. "Are you happy now?"

And he'd paused-- tilted his head, as if considering it-- and the most smug, delighted grin had dawned across his face. _Yes, actually, I really am_, that grin had said. _And thank you for bringing that fact to my attention_.

As Douglas Adams had said, it was the kind of smile that made you want to hit it with a brick. Michael hadn't had a brick, so he'd tried to make do with a large sack of potatoes.

Unfortunately, the bastard's reaction time had improved a _hell_ of a lot, and somehow he'd managed to fend Michael off with the table's umbrella. Where the hell had the kid learned kung fu?

_Yes_, Michael thought, as all the pieces fell into place. _Appropriate for my reaction to be wordless. And I never, EVER want to see, hear, or speak of Rodney McKay ever again. The little bastard brings me nothing but misery._

"Sir," said the "government man", "I just want to ask you a few questions!"

"Screw off!" Michael answered pleasantly.

"No, really, this is vitally important. Dr. McKay is in trouble."

"Best news I've heard all year," Michael yelled, heading back to his armchair.

"We're looking for any information that could compromise his security, his immigration status."

"Make up your mind, you sorry bastard. I've called the cops, you know."

"No, really, you could ruin this man's life if you just talk to me."

"Already tried that. Always fails. What kind of idiot do you think I am?"

"Sir, really--"

"I'm not gonna talk about Rodney McKay! Not ever again!"

"Sir, if you don't open this door--"

"Excuse me, sir, exactly what are you doing here?"

Michael smiled at the sound of the policeman's voice.

"I-- work in the government, I'm just here for an interview, it's vitally important to national security--"

"Really? Show us your badge."

"I-- all right, here."

"NID? You ever heard of the NID, Lou?"

"Nope."

"Neither have I. I think we're gonna have to bring you in. If you'd just-- _Lou, he's going for the window!_"

"I got it!" There were sounds of a scuffle, loud curses, and he thought he heard the distinctive click of a pair of handcuffs closing. "You're under arrest for disturbing the peace, evading arrest, impersonating a government official, and whatever the hell else we find out you're doing. You have the right to remain--"

"_I work for the government!_"

"Save it for your phone call! The right to remain silent. Anything you _do_ say..."

The voices faded down the hallway, and Michael Thornsby smiled. The only marginally good Rodney McKay, after all, was a Rodney McKay who stayed the hell out of his life.

No words needed.

-


End file.
